


a golden dream

by Ushio



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (in the far far future but best be warned), Alternate Universe - Fullmetal Alchemist 2003/Brotherhood Fusion, Angst and Humor, Child Death, Complicated Child-Parent Relationships, Crossover, Doppelgangers galore!, Edward Elric Swears, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, Work In Progress, mostly im just rewriting whatever i didn't like from the harry potter books, yeah its that kind of fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-04-05 18:23:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19045891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ushio/pseuds/Ushio
Summary: Ed is no newcomer to feeling lost. And as many times as he has lost his path, he always finds his way back. This time, he swears, will not be any different, magic be damned.[It's the same old story you have heard a thousand times before: Edward gets transported to Hogwarts, becomes a teacher, shenanigans ensue, yada yada. But in this iteration we can also find: heavy discussions of past trauma, the consequences of a war, the complicated relationship between parents and children and traces of good ol' snark. Also, doppelgangers!]





	1. A horridly florid wallpapered room

**Author's Note:**

> hi there!
> 
> so, i've been writing this story on and off since 2011 i think? back when crossover fics between harry potter/fma were way more popular. i've uploaded bits and pieces of this fic to the internet several times before, always in spanish, and this is my first time attempting to write it out in english. it's also, and i really hope so, going to be the last: either it works or it doesn't. what i wanted for this fic and my own personal tastes has varied wildly across the years and my notes don't make much sense anymore, so i'm scratching them and starting over. a fresh start, a wip that i will try to update as frequently as possible but to which i make no promises. i only have two chapters written so far but i'm uploading the first one in hopes of finding the motivation to keep going. so if you read it and enjoyed don't hesitate to leave a comment! since english is not my first language, i will gladly and gratefully accept any and all criticisms you might feel like sharing <3
> 
> about the fic itself: it starts light but it will deal with some heavy topics in the future so please, be aware of that. i will update the tags when the time comes and also put appropriate warnings in every chapter. 
> 
> **warnings for this chapter:** (very slightly) implied child abuse

 

Someone is tapping his brow with fat, sticky fingers. He’s used to waking up in unexpected places but it has been some time since it last happened. Edward opens his eyes, blinking wearily, and is met with the freckled face of a small child who sits on top of him as if he were furniture. He feels old suddenly — it has been even longer since his own children behaved like this. He doesn’t know this strange kid but kids are always the same, no matter where you are and who raises them. So he raises his left arm and tickles him right above his ribs; the child falls apart laughing and scoots over on the bed. His laughter is clear and high; something tightens in his chest when Edward remembers Maes. This kid is a bit like him, with his honeyed eyes and light hair. His face is round and his nose button-like. Edward smiles at him, still confused and a bit groggy, just as he attempts to get up — and fails spectacularly at it. He flops right back to the sheets with a grunt. The pain that strikes his lower back is almost unbearable and a lesser man might have fainted from it; then again, he has a pretty high threshold for pain.

He breathes deeply, trying to regain his cool and looks around the room he is in. There is nothing here he recognizes; from the bed, to the horridly florid wallpaper to the archaic desk awkwardly fit in a corner. The room feels a bit musty and old, as if no-one ever gave it any use; but more importantly, it feels as a relic from another time. Like a place out of reality and carved from a dream. Edward wonders if he is dreaming. Unable to move, really, he turns his head towards his only source of information. The kid is staring at him, frowning.

“Hey,” he says, voice hoarse and scratchy. His throat feels like sandpaper. “How you doin’ kid?”

“Harry says I shouldn’t speak to strangers,” he mumbles, annoyed. And then his features soften a bit. “Are you okay, though?”

“Well, you shouldn’t sit on them either.” He coughs. The kid looks unimpressed but Edward just grins at him. “I’m fine. I’ve felt better.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“You clearly haven’t seen a corpse.”

“My parents are dead,” he says, flatly. Edward feels a pang in his heart. Gate’s sake, he’s _ancient_ and poor little orphans get to him still.

“So are mine. Did you see their corpses? Your parent’s, I mean.”

“No… They died when I was a baby. At the war.”

At this, Edward raises an eyebrow.

“Which war?”

“I don’t know. That’s what Harry always says.”

“Who the fuck is this Harry anyways? He takes care of you?”

“Don’t say bad words!” The kid scowls and _Gate_ he looks so much like Maes—

“Can it, runt, I’m a grown-ass adult.”

“I’m going to tell Harry,” he announces crossing his arms. His body is thin and pale; Edward notices vague scars alongside his arms and something uncomfortable flips in his stomach. The kid, however, prattles with his pout. “Harry’s my Godfather. He takes care of me when Granny is sick and Granny is always sick because her sister died. And he said not to bother you because you were hurt but I was curious. Who are you?”

Well, that is a _lot_ of information to take in all at once. Edward closes his eyes for a minute, trying to make sense of this all. His head feels less fuzzy, now, and there is something prickling him at the edges of his consciousness. What is the last thing he remembers? He remembers leaving Al’s house after dropping for a visit, he remembers walking down the street towards their favourite bakery because Roy had been _bitching_ for _hours_ about how gladly he would die for a fucking chocolate-muffin —and Gate knows that the elections had them all on edge— and so he had walked towards the bakery and then... and then...

What the fuck? How had he ended up so badly injured on a stranger’s bed after going _to the bakery_?

Okay. First things first. Breathing deeply, Edward turns his head towards the kid and ignores the cramping in his neck and shoulders.

“My name’s Edward,” he says with a small smile. “What’s yours? So I’m not forced to call you Stinky McStinkiest Face.”

“Don’t call me that!” He scowls. “I’m Teddy.”

“Nice to meet you, Teddy. You can call me Ed.”

“I don’t wanna,” he sulks. Edward can help but let out a little laugh.

“Fair enough. I’m sorry if I bothered you, little guy; I’m just in a _lot_ of pain. Like, so much. Could you maybe go get this Godfather of yours? So I can be out of your hair.”

Maes... no, _no,_ Teddy wavers and there it is, a crack in all that puffed-up veneer: he’s worried. His concern is so earnest that it pulls at something in Edward’s chest.

“Does it hurt more than stubbing your toe?”

“Infinitely so. It’s like stubbing a thousand toes.”

“Ew.”

“Indeed,” Edward sighs. His patience is wearing thin. “So could you...?”

He seems almost regretful.

“Harry’s not home. He’s at the Burrow.”

Edward has no fucking clue of what the Burrow is but he is very, very tired of this shit. Where is Roy and why hasn’t he barged in yet screaming about how he never made it home? Where is _Alphonse_? If he has gone missing (has he gone missing?) they must be looking for him, right? But why is he here?

“Teddy?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you... do you know why I’m here?”

He frowns a bit and shakes his head.

“Not really. Harry said he found you somewhere and that you were hurt. He is very worried for you. He sits there every night,” Teddy points at the wooden chair at the desk and Edward wonders about the sort of guy this Harry is. Why is he keeping him all locked up? He can’t be a crazy person because he takes care of this sweet, sweet kid. But he must know him. _Everyone knows him_. It’s more than just the hair or the eyes or the whispered tales of the fabled _Fullmetal alchemist_ , it’s the fact that he’s married to Amestris’ first president. He’s the freaking First Man. Or whatever dumb shit Roy proclaimed him to be.

Edward looks at the faint, pink, crisscrossing lines on Teddy’s skin and feels something old churn inside him. He remembers Nina. He thinks of his own Nina, who he hasn’t seen in a very long time because he is a shit father and he feels sick. He wants to ask but he also knows that the kid will close up like a clam and just get mad. It’s always like that. He has to take it slow…, first, he’s gotta get out of here and out of Harry’s “care”. Who the fuck is this dude, anyway?

“Teddy, can you tell me what day it is?”

“It’s Friday. I know because I had classes this morning and we learned about Shakespeare!”

Edward blinks.

“Who?”

“He wrote really cool plays. I would read you some but I can’t read very well out loud,” he admits with red-tipped ears. Edward has never been more confused in his entire life.

“That’s really cool, man, but I meant as in which date. It’s...” He struggles to recall the date but his brain feels foggy. “March, right?”

“No,” Teddy answers, furrowed brown in tow. “It’s May. Just last week Harry and Grandma and all the Weasleys got together and we celebrated the Peace. I had apple-pie and Uncle George cried for three hours straight. And Rose tugged at my hair because she’s _such_ a baby.” And he rolls his eyes at this last part, just to emphasize his annoyance.

Edward listens to this nonchalant recollection of people he doesn’t know and doesn’t give fuck about, still worried about this mentions of a _war_ the kid keeps bringing up (which war? there hasn’t been a war since the Promised Day and 1) it wasn’t in May 2) it’s not something anyone celebrates). But most importantly: how can they be in mid-May when the elections are on the 27th of March? How long has he been away? Is he kidnapped? Is the kid a cute distraction so he doesn’t try to get away?

_Where the fuck is Roy?_

“Okay, that’s it,” Edward mumbles to himself. Then he steels his will for the upcoming pain. When he turns his head towards Teddy, there’s something harsh in his eyes. “Kid, it’s been great talking to you but I gotta get going. I’m sure my husband is flipping _the fuck_ out because I’m gone and, honestly? I’m really creeped out by this place. No hard feelings. So. Bye.”

Before Teddy can even muster up an answer, Edward sits up through the pain, clenching his teeth like a champ. Well, fuck him sideways this feels _just as great as getting stabbed through the gut_. Sweat collects in his forehead and drips down his neck but he keeps going; trying to find a balance he gets up, untangling his legs from the scratchy sheets, and gives a tentative step forward towards the door. His whole body _howls_ in pain. It feels as if his insides will rip open at every movement; everything burns, everything pulls and his back is killing him. It’s a bit as if several trucks just up and rolled him over. But he keeps moving, stubbornly so.

Teddy is freaking out.

“No! No, no, no! Don’t move! Harry said— Harry said you’re really sick, you can’t move! Ed! Stop!”

Edward ignores him, almost at the door, and presses one hand against his stomach to try to hold in place everything attempting to spill out. His hand feels wet; when he looks down, it’s covered in blood and the sight makes him feel light-headed. Oh, boy. At that precise moment, three things happen:

1) A young, black-haired, bespectacled man with really tan skin opens the door he was trying to reach and takes a step back, startled. He has a wooden stick in his hand. On his forehead there’s a weird, white mess of scar tissue that looks — it almost looks like a lightning bolt.

2) Teddy, terrified for Ed’s health, lunches forward like a small torpedo and latches himself tightly to his leg, unbalancing him and making him trip.

3) Exhausted, drowning in excruciating pain, and with a small and rambunctious child attached to his automail leg, Edward falls right over the carpet with a thud and he can feel his own blood splash the dirty floor.

Before he faints, he hears the man say “Merlin’s balls, Teddy, get away from him! Let him go!” and his voice, deep and strong, resounds loudly inside his head.

 

* * *

 

Someone is tapping his forehead. Again.

“You know, this gets real old real fast. Just saying,” grumbles Edward beneath his breath. At once, the tapping stops and it’s instead replaced with a small, worried voice.

“I was just making sure you weren’t dead”, Teddy says, and Edward doesn’t need to open his eyes to know he is pouting. Even so, he cracks one open and gets a glimpse of a disheveled, pink-haired, pouty kid sitting cross-legged right next to him on the giant, queen-sized bed. He is wearing the weirdest clothes he has ever seen. It’s almost like a priest’s tunic. And there is something he should be noticing but his brain feels sluggish, almost as if moving through muddled waters. A long second passes—

Wait a second, pink-haired?

Opening both of his eyes, Edward blinks twice very slowly.

“Did you dye your hair?” He asks, feeling stupid right after saying it because _of course_ he died his fucking hair, it’s not as if he could change it naturally.

And of course Teddy shakes his head no.

“I don’t know what you mean. But I’m a metamort... ...metar… metama… metamorphmagus! Like my mum. She liked to wear her hair like this,” he says, with a loop-sided grin, and Edward would recognize that tone anywhere in the world. It’s the same kind of pride he took in making his own mother smile with his alchemy. He feels something sharp and sad curl in his gut.

Still, what Teddy said makes no fucking sense and he really needs some answers. So he takes a deep breath.

“Harry’s home, right? The guy from before—”

“Yeah!” Teddy cuts, suddenly startled. “Oh, he told me to tell him the minute you woke up! Oh, shoot—”

And off he goes.

Ed closes his eyes again and tries to focus. This is the second time he wakes up in this strange room. His side is freshly-bandaged and he feels no pain (this guy must have _kickass_ painkillers) so he is taken care of. He doesn’t feel thirsty, hungry or dirty. Has Harry been feeding him, as well? Cleaning him up? Crap, how much has this guy _seen_? Because if he has been here for fucking _months_ , if he’s been kidnapped then—

If he hasn’t been found, he’s most probably been written off as dead.

(And it’s not like his life really matters at all — Gate knows he only fucks things up. He specializes in it, in taking, _creating_ beautiful things and fucking them up—)

Roy’s probably better off without his sorry ass.

But it _hurts._ It hurts to be here; it hurts — to know that he must have hurt Roy. Alphonse must be _devastated_ and you know what, fuck _this_ , fuck this fucking Harry guy for kidnapping him and breaking Alphonse’s heart, he’s going back home—

His self-preservation instinct has kicked in with a metal foot and Edward is sitting in bed and trying to remove the covers when Harry shows up. He can’t feel most of his body (what the fuck are these drugs made of?!) but that doesn’t stop him from trying to move his legs. He’s just going at it really, really slowly. So slowly that Harry is by his side in no-time and his hands stop him with no effort at all. Edward heaves, exhausted, and locks gazes with his kidnapper.

This Harry guy is young as fuck. He looks like a teenager. Maybe he is. Round glasses, green eyes and that mess of a scar. Nothing’s different since the last time. Except, well, he seems angrier.

“Stop trying to move! Do you have a death wish or something?”

“Who... are... you...” is Edward’s clever response. Harry seems taken back.

“You don’t know me?”

“Why the _fuck_... would I know you?”

Harry furrows his brow and helps him get into bed again. Edward can’t barely breathe and sure as hell he does not have the energy to complain. So _there’s_ the pain. And quite a lot of it. Oh, Gate.

“You really have to stay put. If you move your side will rip open again. And I will have to heal you _again_ and call San Mungo’s and I really, really don’t want to. So please, _please_ , just — don’t move.”

Through heavy-lidded eyes, Edward can see Harry’s exasperation burning fever-bright. He reminds him of Winry.

“Sure.”

“Well, _thanks—_ ”

“But tell me why the fuck you kidnapped me.”

“I—what?”

“You. Kidnapped me.”

“I did not! Who told you that? Was it Teddy? Because I keep telling him not to bother you and to stop talking to you and that kid just won’t listen—” Harry is getting more worked up by the second and Edward’s just getting more confused. This is going nowhere.

“Okay, okay. Stop right there, okay? Teddy didn’t tell me anything. Well, no, he did tell me stuff but not that. I just... assumed it. Because I’m _here_ and I don’t know where this is or who you are or what am I doing here so could you... explain?”

All in all, Edward feels quite proud of himself. This was a great diplomatic effort. And to a kidnapper, to boot! Well, a presumed kidnapper. Harry sits beside him in the bed and tilts his head to the left, apparently as confused as he feels. His hair, black as a raven’s wing, it’s sticking up in every direction and it looks messy as hell. Edward wonders if he interrupted some extraneous activity or if it just looks like that naturally.

He looks _so young_.

“Well, there is not much to tell. My name’s Harry Potter but you... probably know who I am. You are in Grimauld Place, my house. It was my Godfather’s Sirius Black but I inherited it after his death. It’s where I’ve been living since the war. I’m still working on revamping it and stuff which is why it looks so... old,” he says, with a wince.

Edward looks at the horridly florid wallpaper and then stares blankly at Harry. That’s an understatement.

“Anyway,” Harry coughs. “I found you a week ago right next to Hagrid’s old hut. Or, more precisely, some Ravenclaws fifth years found you, all bloody and battered. They thought you were a drunkard or something and called me — but something seemed fishy so I brought you here. The headmistress didn’t feel it was appropriate for you to stay at Hogwarts’ infirmary and I don’t like San Mungo’s, so. That’s it, that’s the story. I have _not_ kidnapped you, nor do I want to! I was just waiting for you to wake up and tell me who you were so I could help you get home. I checked in with the Ministry and there’s no missing person’s report for anyone that looks like you, so your family, if you have any, it’s not looking for you. I’m sorry if you think I did something wrong I just—” Harry falters, discouraged by the horrified look in Edward’s face but he’s wrong.

It’s not that Edward feels offended or affronted by how he dealt with the situation.

He’s fucking _terrified._

“I...”                                                  

“Are you okay? Do you want water or anything else...?”

“What is the name of this country?”

“Eh... what?”

“Quickly! Just say it!”

“Uhhh, England…? And we’re near London.”

Edward feels himself go paler.

“And the date?”

“May 15th, 2007. Edward, are you sure you’re...?”

A beat, a beat, a beat.

_Fuck, shit, crap, balls, fuck fuck fuck._

“This is not my world,” Ed says, dreading every word.

“What?”

“This... is not my world. I don’t know where I am but... I live in a country called Amestris. And it’s 1935.”

Harry blinks owlishly at him and pushes his glasses further up his nose. He seems scared, too. Edward’s not too sure he understands the _gravity_ of the situation. Edward _does_ feel certain that he’s about to puke from nerves alone.

“That’s... not possible?”

“It is. I read about it in some books, a long time ago. The notion of mirror dimensions, of parallel universes where things are different, where there is no alchemy—”

“Alchemy?”

Edward could cry.

“You don’t have it, do you?”

“Well... I think we do? Because I knew of one alchemist, although he is long gone. I could ask Hermione about that. But we have magic. Don’t you have magic in your... world?”

Magic. Motherfucking _magic._

Leaning back, Edward closes his eyes and tries to control his breathing. He is _not_ going to cry in front of a complete stranger.

“I’m well and truly fucked,” he whispers.

A minute of silence, long and awkward; Harry shuffles in the bed and Ed can feel his discomfort and his worry.

“Maybe... maybe there is a way for you to go back home. I could help you find it. If you want,” Harry says, tentatively. He sounds sincere. Edward looks at him, and feels a tiny sliver of hope rear its head deep in his heart but he squashes it without a thought. He must be certain, first, that there _is_ a way of going back home. He needs more data.

“What’s in it for you?”

“Huh?”

“Why would you help me? Why not simply dump on me on the street?” And Edward’s pretty sure he’s got this guy pegged but he wants to know his answer. If he really is in another world, then he must be careful — people can’t know about this. They would try to cross over from one to the other. He doesn’t even know what this magic is or what it can do — Edward feels his brain churning, turning, furiously fast. There is so much to do and the longer he stays here, the worst it’ll be for Al, for Roy. Damn, even Winry must be sad. And Nina... oh Gate, _Nina_. Does she miss him at all? Does she... care?

He’s so engrossed in his own thoughts that he doesn’t even realize it when Harry gets up and walks to the door. There’s a ghost of a smile in his lips.

“You know, this must be proof that you really are not from this world. Any wizard out there could tell you all about my “hero complex” and “fixer-upper tendencies”. That’s who I am and I can’t help it; you save the world once and then you want to save it every time,” says Harry, grinning brightly. Edward feels an absurd urge to laugh.

They really _are_ alike.

“I won’t abandon you,” says Harry, sobered up. “I’ve been taking care of you for a week, now, and I intend to see this through. It’s the least you deserve. And besides... I think that just letting you loose on the wizarding world might be a dangerous idea.”

“Hey!”

Harry smiles.

“I’m going to go get a friend who will help us with this. I trust her and she’s way cleverer than me so she’ll know better what to do. I’ll be right back so please, _please_ don’t move or do anything that might extort you. And if Teddy comes around could you... could you cut back the cursing? His grandma’s been asking questions and honestly—”

“Fine, fine,” Edward rolls his eyes. “Go! I’ll wait here. Doing nothing.”

“You better,” Harry warns, pointing at him with his stick. Edward wonders if that’s supposed to impress him. However, he doesn’t have time to ask; with a flick of said stick, Harry disappears on the spot right in front of him. He doesn’t walk or run away. He just. Disappears. Like smoke. Gone. Ed can’t contain a little yelp.

“What the _fuck!_ ”

He’s definitely going to take his sweet time getting used to this magic bullshit thing.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry doesn’t take long to come back but Edward’s bored out of his _mind_ by the time he returns. He hasn’t allowed himself to think about home and Roy’s stupid-ass face and Al’s smile because he knows that the moment he does this, the moment he lets himself _wallow_ he won’t get out of that hole for days. His heart hurls and gnarls in pain and Edward just pushes it all down, deep, deep down where he can’t feel it or see it. Not now. Not yet.

So, since he can’t think of home, he has been trying to remember how he ended up here. To no avail. And when that didn’t lead anywhere, he took to counting the flowers in the wallpaper. He’s around a zillion-and fifty fuck when Harry returns with his friend in tow. She’s a tall, black woman with bushy hair and brown eyes. She is wearing the same kind of weird tunic that Teddy and it looks better on her but it’s still weird. And it’s _peach_. The color clashes horribly with the décor. The woman stares at him with harsh eyes and Ed is suddenly reminded of Teacher. She has the Look down to a T.

He really hopes Harry hasn’t brought her around to kick his ass because he feels so weak he would probably roll over and die.

“Nice to see you haven’t moved, Edward,” says Harry. He quirks an eyebrow, as if daring him to correct him. Ed just sighs.

“You can call me Ed. I’d prefer it, actually. And, dude, I can’t even feel my legs, where the fuck do you want me to go. What’s in these drugs you’re giving me, honestly?”

“They are called “magic spells”. I would assume they contain magic.”

“Great.”

The woman clears her throat and Harry turns to her, startled.

“Oh, yes. This is my friend Hermione Weasley. She’s a... lawyer? Do you have lawyers in your world?”

“For fuck’s sake, Harry, we’re from another world, not savages.”

“Just checking!” He replies, annoyed. “The thing is, she is the brightest witch of our age and if there’s anyone out there who can help you with this, it’s her.”

Hermione smiles up at him when she hears this and Harry smiles back. Just by looking at them, Edward knows they have known each other for a very long time. Then she sets her gaze on him and — yep, there it is the fear again.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Edward Elric,” he salutes, lazily. “I would get up, but... well. I’m badly hurt.”

“I can see that,” she says. Her voice is high and clear. Edward can picture her very clearly tearing people apart with her words in court. “Are you a soldier?”

Well, she’s not beating around any bushes, that’s for sure. Edward tries to sit a bit straighter before answering and Harry, who was moving the wooden chair from the desk, looks up surprised.

“What?”

“He just saluted at me,” explains Hermione with a flat tone.

“I thought that was a... thing from his world?”

“Harry, please. First, you don’t have any proof that he’s not from _this_ world and he’s trying to trick you—”

“I trust him!”

“You shouldn’t! And _second_ , if it sounds like a thestral...”

This time, Edward clears his throat.

“If I may... before we get sidetracked?”

Hermione glares at him but nods her head.

“Go ahead,” she says. “Who, exactly, are you? And why should we trust you?”

Ed can’t help a smile. He likes her already.

“Harry, you should be a bit more like her. You’re too trusting and one day that’ll get you killed,” he sighs, straightening up. Hermione snickers under his breath and Harry scowls. Ed likes them way more than he should. “It’s not my place to tell you whether you should trust me or not; that is for you to decide. Don’t get me wrong, if I were in your position I’d be hella suspicious too. But _look_ at me. There’s not much I can do to y’all, is there?”

Harry nods along.

“He does have a point.”

“Hmph.”

“You both know my name.” Edward goes on. “And I _am_ a soldier. A colonel, actually, although I’ve never been deployed. I work mostly as an individual contractor for the military government of my country, as an alchemist. Harry told me that you knew about alchemy... Hermione?”

She seems unconvinced.

“I do. Not much, mind you, it’s a very specialized field of potion making but I did some research when I was in second year. Just some light reading. But... what use could the military have for an alchemist? They specialize in gold-making and creating elixirs,” she replies, quirking an eyebrow.

Edward feels like he’s been gutted.

“Is that... is that _all?_ Doesn’t alchemy have any more uses or applications here?”

“Not that I know of. I can look it up but I have excellent memory and I don’t remember reading anything else— Ed, are you okay?”

“Fuck no.” He grunts, rubbing his face with his hand. “Alchemy is way, way more than that. Unfortunately, I can’t show you as I can’t _do_ alchemy anymore. I lost my abilities a long time ago. And maybe... maybe it wouldn’t have worked on this world anyway. Alchemy drinks from a very specific life-force that doesn’t exist here. Hopefully.”

He really, _really_ hopes that this whole thing about Doppelgangers living in parallel universes he once read in his books is not true because, damn, he can’t fight Father a second time. He’s getting old and rusty.

“Didn’t you just say you worked as an alchemist?” Hermione says. “How can you if you can’t practice it?”

“I’m a researcher. I study it. I develop new arrays and work on decoding others; it’s all highly theoretical.”

And then something glints in Hermione’s eyes and Ed knows he has her in his pocket; she’s curious enough to ask. She gets closer to the bed and sits on the same spot Harry sat before. He’s watching the whole conversation like a tennis match.

“If it can be taught, would you teach me some? Your alchemy sounds wildly different from ours and I wonder—”

“Hermione, if you can get me back home in one piece (or most pieces, I don’t mind losing one or two) I’ll teach you whatever the fuck you want.”

She snorts and extends a hand.

“Deal.”

Edward grins, bright, hot-white and dangerous.

“How can I help? Can you bring me some books or something?”

She smiles at his enthusiasm but shakes her head no.

“Wait. First we have to understand _how_ you got here. Do you remember?”

There’s that fucking wall again.

“Not a clue. I was walking home from a bakery and then... zing. Nothing.”

“Hm... Harry, do you think a legilimens could..?

“Maybe, I don’t know, I specialize in Occlumancy and it’s quite different. But the memory must be inside his head still, unless they erased it specifically. Can your alchemy do that?”

Edward blinks, confused by this turn in the conversation.

“ _Erase_ memories? Well... no, not really. Not that I know of.”

“Then maybe, your memories are still intact. Just hidden from view...” Hermione gets up again and takes out a stick of her own. Edward really needs to start asking what’s the deal with all these sticks. She dusts off her clothes and exchanges a Look with Harry. They communicate silently. “I’ll be right back,” she says, turning to Edward. “I have to check something with a friend.”

And she’s gone with a _pop_. Edward turns to Harry, wide-eyed.

“How do you even do that?”

Harry laughs good-naturedly.

“Welcome to the Wizarding world. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

Ed it’s pretty sure he won’t.


	2. Something missing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi there!!! sorry for the long wait! june was a hectic month and i've been writing this chapter in bits and pieces when i could spare a moment. it doesn't entirely convince me but i guess its better to post /something/ and keep going rather than let another attempt at this story die! also you guys should know that this is the first time since, like............................. 2014? that i update a story! and the first time in ao3! gosh im excited bbb. i hope you'll enjoy it!!!! and thank you so so much to everyone who commented on the first one! you guys made my day <3

It takes Hermione so long to come back that Edward’s fast asleep by the time she reappears, dragging Malfoy in tail. Harry looks up from the homework he’s marking on his desk, fingers ink-stained and furrowed brown to match, an almost instinctual response to his students rather creative solutions to his assignments. He was so engrossed on Miss Bethany’s paper on the Knockback Jinx that he had almost forgot about the injured man fast asleep on the bed. He blinks at Malfoy, his sluggish, exhausted brain trying to catch up, and when Malfoy raises an eyebrow back it all comes back to him, and so he turns to check if Edward’s still there. Sure enough, there he is: sleeping like a log, with one hand tuck under his shirt, resting over his bandaged side. He looks younger like this, softer, like someone sanded his edges away and pulled back all his snark. Harry feels his heart tug at the sight of him: Edward seems lost. Small. His eyes stop briefly on his prosthetic leg before acknowledging his friends. Hermione seems rather disappointed that she’s late and Malfoy just looks like his usual prickly self. Uninterested. Imperturbable. Bored out of his freaking mind. Harry can’t still wrap his head around their friendship; what does Hermione even _do_ with him? Sulk? Bore holes into people’s eyes?

“I _told_ you we had to hurry!”

“And I told _you,_ ” Malfoy drawls, “that the Gillyweed Potion cannot be interrupted mid-brewing or we could have _died_. Surely this is preferable?” He asks so dryly enough for Harry to choke. Not of _laughter_ , of course, just a regular choke because he has not drink in a while. Malfoy looks at him out of the corner of his eye but he says nothing. Harry must admit he is on his best behavior.

Hermione huffs in annoyance as she clears none-existent dust from her robes.

“Of course not. But still...”

“I can still perform the spell on him, even as he sleeps. It will be muddier, yes — but nothing I can’t handle. Would that suffice?”

Hermione looks at him, knitting her eyebrows, and Malfoy turns to look in tandem. Awaiting permission, perhaps. His eyes, clear and bright like silvered-moons, give nothing away. Harry feels his face grow hot as he considers the idea. It would be the quickest, easiest way. In and out, without bothering Edward about it or interrupting his much needed sleep. And Neville’s orders were clear the last time he dragged him to San Mungo’s: Edward’s body had suffered tremendous trauma before and did not respond well to healing spells. There was something in him that repelled magic — like a Muggle would, but not quite the same. He was unresponsive to layering spells and potions did little more than soothe his pain. To keep him alive would be a task in and out of itself, and so he needed every advantage he could gather, including full bedrest. It would be kinder to let him sleep. To let him heal first. But it would also imply deceit.

Harry has a long and complicated history with people manipulating him behind his back. He will not put Edward through that.

“No. We will wake him first, explain what you will do to him and let him choose.” He speaks firmly, his voice leaving no room for doubt. Hermione nods at him with a little smile, clearly relieved at his choice. Draco says nothing. He looks at him, silently, his expression unreadable and his eyes unfathomable, silvery banks of cold white mist. Unnerved, Harry tears his gaze away from him and approaches Edward’s bedside. He gently shakes him awake, pressing his hands against his shoulder: his skin feels hot beneath his clothes.

It takes a long while to rouse him; in the meantime, Hermione transforms something (not one of his essays, he hopes) into a plush armchair and Malfoy _accios_ the teapot from the kitchen and charms it on the spot. They bicker for a moment about who gets to sit on the armchair (Hermione wins) and then Malfoy transforms one of his own but it is not as nice or as well-made and she mocks him kindly for it. Harry has to bit off a laugh that starts deep in his chest and rumbles in his bones. It would be improper and _weird_ because he’s not friends with Malfoy. Hermione is. He is _not_ and he doesn’t _want_ to be and he almost tells him so when Malfoy hands him a cup of tea — but he just manages a quiet, strangled _thanks_. Their fingertips brush when he passes him the cup and their eyes met again. Draco’s... Malfoy’s easy smile fades away and there’s that... blankness again. God, would it kill him to _say something_? Anything! Anything would be better than this—

“Ngh... fuck...” Edward eloquently mumbles, stirring in his sleep, and they all turn to him. Harry has never felt so grateful before. He carefully leaves his cup on the bedside table and focuses on his guest. This up and close he can see the faint traces of laugh lines in his cheeks and wrinkles around his eyes. It startles him a bit. He thought they were around the same age, that maybe Edward had a couple of years on him at best. Edward blinks, blearily, and Harry smiles at him.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. “Sorry for waking you up. How are you feeling?”

“Like fuck.” Edward growls before scrubbing at his eyes. Harry waits for another moment, letting him get a hold of his bearings. It doesn’t take long for him to notice Malfoy’s presence. He scrunches his face and Hermione’s up on her feet before he can snarl.

“Ed, this is the friend I told you about before. The one who was going to help us with your memories.”

He stares at them in sleepy confusion. He looks both like a teenager and an old man at once; Harry finds it both fascinating and horrifying.

“How long’s ‘it been?”

“About... four hours? Maybe?” Harry offers, not quite sure as he lost track of time himself in his grading frenzy.

“More like five.” Malfoy corrects, his drawl even drier than before. Harry feels his throat _hum_. Malfoy raises from his made-up seat and walks towards the bed. Edward looks at him like he’s after his school-lunch; for his suspicious squinting anyone would say they’re long-lost enemies. “Draco Malfoy. I’m here to perform _legilimency_ on you.”

“Le- _what_?”

“I will read your mind.”

Edward closes up even further.

“You mean... my memories?” He frowns deeper, and Harry’s almost certain he’s going to refuse just on principle (it wouldn’t surprise him — many wizards dislike legilimency). But then something changes on his face. It softens up. It opens up. His eyes burn bright and fierce, their determination crystal clear. He nods, sitting straighter. “Okay.”

Malfoy knits his eyebrows.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. I just...” He hesitates for a moment. “Can you choose not to look at certain things?”

“Of course. I was only going to look specifically for your latest memories, anyway. I will not dig around.”

“Is that a promise, blondie?”

Harry turns a bewildered look at Malfoy, expecting him to spatter frenzied complains. But he just looks vaguely amused, too exhausted to bother. He takes note for the first time of the dark shadows under his eyes, the smudged look to his face, the tired slant of his shoulders. He looks like he needs a nap. Or twenty.

“I will do my best.” Malfoy says, and Edward just nods again. “Now, stay still. You’re not a wizard but you’re certainly not a muggle — so I’m not sure how this will affect you or whether it will hurt. Stay put and stay quiet.”

Edward doesn’t move, not even to acknowledge him. His mouth sets in a thin, serious line; his eyes fan the coals within until the flames burn high and thick. His whole body tenses up; Harry can see it in his taunt neck and his clenched fists. Like a spring ready to jump. There is a moment of silence, one instant of anticipation. And then—

“ _Legilimens!”_ Malfoy exclaims, firmly, bluntly, holding his poised wand towards Edward’s forehead. He lets out a small groan. Harry feels the urge to jump forward, to break them apart — his own experiences with legilimency have never been pleasant. But Hermione puts a hand in his shoulder, steadying him, grounding him to this endless moment. Silence pangs between them as Malfoy sorts his way through Edward’s mind. He’s also furrowing his brow, sweat collecting at his temples, and Harry fears this might have been a bad idea. The moment spools, growing thin, tension tangling with it, until—

It breaks. Malfoy takes a step back, gasping, hunched over himself like he just ran a marathon, resting his hands on his knees for dear life. Edward plops over his pillow, his whole body crumpling like a doll. His eyes stare vacantly at the cracked ceiling, and his breathing is shallow and quick. Harry doesn’t know who worries him more. He has half a mind to yell at them both because this was a terrible, terrible idea, but then Malfoy laughs.

Draco Malfoy _laughs_ like Harry has never heard him laugh before. Not mean, not derisive, not haughty, just — honest. An honest expression of amusement. The sound reverberates on the wallpapered walls, bouncing off the cramped furniture, shaking Harry to his core. He can’t scarcely believe his ears and almost jumps out of his skin when Edward snickers, too. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Hermione crossing her arms, as confused and aggravated as he feels. It gets even _weirder_ when Malfoy just sits at the foot of Edward’s bed, across from Harry, still hunched over like he’s out of breath. His laughter dies out but a small smile remains.

“You’re a tough nut to crack, hm?” Malfoy asks, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. Harry follows the movement with his eyes.

“’Been told that before, yeah.”

“I just can’t... I can’t _believe_ you aren’t a wizard. Your mental defenses would have put old Dumbledore’s to _shame_.” He sounds amazed. Almost _giddy_. He is acting so unlike anything Harry has ever pictured about Malfoy that he can’t help wondering whether _he_ has jumped worlds.

Edward lets out a snort.

“Dumb-who? What’s up with y’all and all these freaky names?”

“So it is true.” Malfoy says, amazed, like Ed just confirmed the existence of God. Harry can’t begin to fathom what he saw in Edward’s head that would draw such a reaction from him but it is — unnerving. 

“What you saw in my head? Yeah. Of course.” He answers nonchalantly, almost uninterested, but his face tightens in worry soon enough. He sighs. “Alchemy doesn’t deal with _memory modification_. I wouldn’t know how to fake memories. And I doubt anyone else would.”

“In your entire world?” Hermione snaps. Edward levels a tired look at her. He props himself in bed, sitting against the headboard, and such a short adjustment leaves him already out of breath. They wait patiently, anxiously even (at least in Harry’s case), until he finds the strength to speak.

“It just... it doesn’t _work_ like that. Alchemy deals with the scientific understanding of material structure, its decomposition and its reconstruction. It can be used to alter the body, yes, but the mind — what elements should an alchemist deconstruct? Which part of the brain holds thoughts and memories? It’s absurd. Organic alchemy does not work with such matters and biological or molecular alchemy... well, it is not my field of expertise, but it is my brother’s. If there existed a way to alter memories through the alchemical modification of the brain, I would _know_.”

Harry feels his head turn as he tries to piece together the dozen words he has understood. It’s a difficult task. A heavy silence blankets the room; he risks a look at Hermione who appears unfazed, but Harry can see right through her façade. Her eyes are twitching and her mouth just curled the tiniest bit downside — she is stressed and it can only be because she is lost herself. Malfoy, however, doesn’t seem to hold any such qualms to proclaim his confusion.

“I understood literally nothing of what you just said,” he drawls, truly impassive. “But I do know that someone has tampered with your memories. You are missing a bit more than a week. The last memory I could access was your screaming at a fancy bakery.”

Edward startles at that.

“Was I attacked?”

“No, you were demanding a man to leave because he was, and I quote, ‘a motherfucking creeper’. I think he might have been harassing a girl but you were more concerned with him than her, actually.” Malfoy doesn’t seem particularly impressed with him, but Harry can’t help a smile. As little as he knows Edward, it’s hard to picture him quiet in the face of injustice. A Gryffindor through and through.

“I don’t... I don’t remember...”

“It’s all right,” Hermione says, rushing to soothe him. “ _Legilimency_ can sometimes access memories that are difficult to recall. We do block some stuff naturally... and with this spell a good _legilimens_ can circumvent that.”

“So the memories I’m missing, that whole week — is that a natural thing? Did I got traumatized and _blocked_ it? Because let me tell you, I’ve seen some shit and I’ve _never_ blocked any of it—”

“No.” Malfoy says, and his voice tightens up, fraying around the corners. They all stand at attention at the sudden seriousness in his face, his mirthless eyes and thin-line mouth. “No, Hermione was right when she hypothesized your memories had not been erased — they have been blocked. Hidden behind a barrier, presumably to protect the identity of those who would do this to you.”

Edward pinches the bridge of his nose.

“So you’re saying some... wizards or whatever fucking bullshit y’all call yourselves did this to me?”

“If you’re correct in your assessment that your alchemy is not capable of doing such a thing... then, yes. This must be the result of a curse.” Malfoy furrows his brown and taps his wand against his knee, rhythmically, probably without realizing. “I don’t recognize the spell nor do I know anything about something like it. But—”

“Nothing some research can’t breach!” Hermione finishes, clearly excited about the prospect. Harry would much rather this whole issue be over and done with.

“Precisely,” Malfoy drawls.

“Then... what now?” Harry asks.

“We will research how such a barrier was erected in the first place and how to take it down. And when I say ‘we’, Potter,” and then Malfoy levels a scowl at him that, Harry feels, it’s entirely undeserved, “I mean Hermione and I. You’re not allowed to play with us.” As blank as he keeps his face, Harry can glimpse the edge of a smirk dangling from his mouth. He wants to rip it away so bad his fingers cramp.

“Any particular reason why?”

“Do I need to spell it out, Potter?” And there it is, in full view: that punchable offense of a smile.

“The hell’s goin’ on.” Edward mumbles. He is completely ignored.

“Draco, please, are you a literal child?” Hermione interrupts, rolling her eyes. “Don’t mind him, Harry. He has weird hang-ups about you as a professor and _insists_ that—”

“Hermione!” Malfoy almost shouts, scandalized. She remains impassive. “I told you that _in confidence!”_

“Then you shouldn’t have started! Harry is not fifteen anymore and he’s perfectly capable of doing some research for Merlin’s sake—”

“I will believe that when I _see_ it and not a mome—”

“Hey!” Harry shouts, half-amused and half-annoyed. Mostly, just annoyed. “I’m right here! Remember me? And I haven’t gone deaf yet.”

Malfoy and Hermione exchange a murderous look and then the both of them look away and cross their arms _at the same time_ with such timed precision that Harry feels his hairs stand on end.

Edward lets out a thunderous bout of laughter, like he’s witnessed something _funny_ and not _straight-up horrifying_ and that marks the end of it. With a clear goal in mind, both Malfoy and Hermione promptly depart (not without transforming the armchairs, which were essays indeed, back into their original forms) and they all agree to reconvene at a later time. Maybe not in Edward’s room, since he needs rest. Harry almost expects a complaint from him, something about keeping him in the dark, but he remains quiet, strangely so. Eyes fixed to the wallpapered walls, head tilted to a side. There is something tense in him that holds Harry back from any attempt to talk. So he works. Back to grading, his never-ending task. And grimacing at the grammar of his poor students and sometimes wondering why he picked this job at all.

An hour or so later, Edward speaks.

“Don’t you sleep?”

“Hm?” Harry takes a moment to process his words, eyes still glued to the paper. Honestly, the things his students _think_ —“Oh, well. Yes. Sometimes. I don’t sleep much in general... am I bothering you? I can work in my office.” Harry turns around on his chair to look at him; Edward appears much the same as he was before. Tired. Rugged. Molten gold spilled over the sheets, as beautiful as he is cold. It might just be the candlelight but he does look — older.  

“Nah, I don’t mind,” he says, voice low and gruff. His eyes are still on the wall. “Why are you here, though? If you got an office.”

“Just keeping you company,” Harry says, a bit defensive. Edward blinks and looks at him. His eyes are bright and quick, like a flash. He feels blinded for a moment. And then — he smiles. And Harry feels his whole body unravel, tension pooling from his hands.

“That’s nice of you. Thanks.”

“It’s nothing, really. Just... I don’t know,” Harry says, sighing, “I don’t like to be alone when I’m bedridden. Reminds me of...” _The cupboard_. But he doesn’t say it, of course, he barely knows this man. As much as Edward prompts him to speak his mind it feels wrong to say some things aloud.

He rubs at his eyes. He really needs to get some sleep.

“It’s fine, I get it. I’ve spent a lot of time in sick in bed, too.” He closes his eyes, wistful. Like he remembered something. Before Harry can think of anything to say (that is not “how old are you because it’s wrecking my mind”), he continues. “You saw the automail, right?”

“Huh?”

“My metal leg. When you took me in, you must have seen it. My automail.” He speaks with his eyes closed, head thrown back against the headboard looking both tired and exceedingly bored.

“Oh! Yes, uh, is... automail a kind of prosthetic in your world?”

Edward opens his eyes at that and furrows his brow at him.

“You guys don’t have automail in here?”

“I... don’t think so? I mean. Muggles have prosthetics of their own but they look nothing like that and — I’m not sure about wizards,” he admits. “The only amputee I’ve known was kind of... extravagant.” A kind word for Mad-eye Moody.

Edward heaves out a heavy sigh.

“Fucking great. Let’s hope my leg doesn’t break before I make it home or my mechanic will throw a fit. And then she’ll throw me over a cliff when she finds one.”

“When?”

“There’s no if for a Rockbell, kid.”

“Harsh,” Harry says, grimacing. “You guys have, uh... a rocky relationship?”

“It’s more that I used to break my limbs _a lot_ in order to get by. She’s still hanged up on that.” Edward smiles a sad, crooked little smile that fades away as he says: “She’s my ex-wife.”

Harry feels his brain go numb. He can feel his open mouth and can see the amusement on Edward’s eyes, but it takes him a moment to actually recompose himself. His face flares in embarrassment.

“Wow. There must be quite a story there.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” His face twists in a funny way and he grins at him. “Just how old did you think I was, kid?”

His ears are _burning_ and never has he ever been more grateful for his dark skin.

“Shut up.”

“C’mon, tell me!”

“Ughhh, no, really, it’s dumb, I was clearly wrong—”

“Oh, Harry, will you truly deprive this poor, old man the comfort of amusement—”

“That’s not fair!”

Edward’s grin only widens and Harry gives in.

“Fine! 25. I thought you were my age. Maybe a couple years older at best.” He looks away, annoyed, but can’t help a little smile of his own at Edward’s snickering.

“Fuck, man, I feel so flattered. If Roy could hear you he’d have _a riot_.”

“Fuck off, mate—”

“Awn, look at you! Swearing like a grown-up and all!”

Harry shots him a withered, unimpressed look even Snape would have been proud of. Edward doesn’t seem affected at all; he just smiles at him like he’s on the verge of another laugh. Harry can’t help smiling back.

“So who’s this Roy guy? You’ve mentioned him before.”

Wrong thing to say. Edward blinks and all mirth falls from his face like it’s been dusted away. Harry opens his mouth to take it back, to try and put that smile back on his lips but he doesn’t know what to say. Awkwardness settles in.

“Have I?”

“... Yeah. In your sleep,” Harry says, apologetic. To himself he keeps the crying and the desperate voice that accompanies the name. He doesn’t need to know. “I’m sorry. Really. I shouldn’t have—”

Edward sighs.

“It’s okay. It’s fine. He’s my husband.”

_Oh._

His face must let something through because Edward twists his mouth and his eyes harden up.

“You got a problem with that?”

Harry almost laughs at the absurdity of it.

“No! No, no, of course not.” The words hang from his mouth but he cannot bring himself to say them. He never has, before. “Quite, huh... the opposite...”

He doesn’t dare say more than that. But Edward must understand because his face softens up — and his whole body sags, relieved somehow, of an invisible weight that had sat upon him. Harry wonders if it’s the same weight he carries everywhere these days. He dares not ask. Deciding that it’s been more than enough for one night, he gathers his essays and his quill and makes a beeline for the door. Has a hand on the handle by the time Edward speaks.

“Can you keep a secret, Harry?”

He turns around, clutching his parchment to his chest.

“Sure.”

“You specially can’t tell Roy, you hear me?”

That brings a smile to Harry’s lips. He laughs.

“I’ll make sure of it.”

“Good. Because it’d be awful if he knew I miss him something terrible, you know?” Edward’s smile turns sad and frayed as he speaks, his whole face frosted by memories he cannot recognize. “I would never hear the end of it.”

He nods.

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

Edward grins back, clearing all wistfulness from his face like swabbing at a window pane.

“You’re a good sort, kid. G’night.”

“Good night, Ed.”

It is not until he is in his room that Harry realizes he still doesn’t know Edward’s age.


End file.
